Homeward
by Sophisticus
Summary: Shortly after the fifth Blight ended, Alistair and lady Cousland were married and ruled the throne jointly. Not too long later, the queen disappeared for reasons of her own. Now, years later, a mysterious figure slips through the streets of Denerim, towards the palace.


The day's last dying sunbeams streamed throughout the city, straining to shine through the tightly packed buildings that lined the grid lines of streets and alleys. Along one such alley strode a lone hooded figure. The figure paused to observe some children playing with a mabari puppy in the street.  
A mother peeked her head out of the doorway of her modest home and shouted for her children to come back inside and was up, dinner was ready. The children grudgingly headed inside, but not before one of them gazed curiously after the mysterious person who slipped around the corner before she could see their face.  
The figure walked quickly, but not so quickly as to gain notice by either the city folk or the guards. This return had been a long time coming, just a few years shy of a decade; it wouldn't stand to ruin the surprise now.  
Soon, the figure stood before the gates of Denerim's royal palace. The two sentries stepped forward to intercept her.  
"Please state your business," one of them started to say, but his words stammered to a stop when the figure drew back her hood slightly. She pressed her finger to her lips to silence him, then with a conspiratorial smile, pulled her hood back into place and slipped into the palace without a word.  
The other guard, who hadn't seen her face, stared after her. "Why in the bloody hell did you just let her in?" he demanded, flabbergasted.  
The first guard stared back; his expression was a blend of shock and delight. "It's the queen!"  
Inside the castle, Castielle peered around the antechamber. The furniture was a bit different, but the layout of the building itself was the same; as such it took her next to no time to reach the throne room. Once outside, she paused.  
As king, Alistair had always made time to hear personal pleas from their subjects, usually on Sunday evenings such as this one. If she remembered right, he would be wrapping things up, and preparing for supper.  
As long and treacherous as the past seven and a half years had been, traversing the continent and beyond, finding and fighting wonders and horrors beyond belief, this moment caused her more anxiety than anything she'd faced.  
In fact, she realized with a grim smile, the last time she'd had such a knot of fear and anticipation wound up inside, strangling her heart and lungs, she'd been about to face down an archdemon.  
She reached the double door to the throne room, flanked by another set of guards, who she convinced to let her pass by another quick peek past her hood. She took a deep breath as they reached for the door handles and pulled; she let it escape slowly as her eyes adjusted from the dim light of the hallway to the bright, cheery light of the throne room.  
Behind the throne roared a massive fire in the hearth, tended to by a servant. A handful of benches lay in rows between the door and the throne, and these were sat with various nobles and dignitaries who sought to either participate in the events, or to influence them. A few of them were recognizable, but none of their faces flickered with recognition at the sight of her. This hooded cloak she'd picked up at a traveling merchant was a good buy, then.  
Her gaze traveled the short distance between the now-staring nobles and the handful of remaining common folk, all the way to the man sat on the wooden throne.  
Her throat constricted as she began walking towards him, almost unconsciously.  
His hair was longer, and he'd grown out his mustache and a short beard, and in the sunset light streaming through the high windows, she could see the first few streaks of gray peeking out at his temples. He had perhaps a few more lines around his eyes, which watched her with polite interest as she slowed to a stop in front of him, her face still hidden by her cloak.  
Maker, he hadn't really changed at all in her absence, Castielle thought to herself.  
"Yes, what is it you want?" Alistair said, a little stiffly.  
Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a little weak in the knees at the sound of his voice after so long. Partially to hide this, and partially because it was customary, she knelt on one knee, bowing her head.  
As she did so, her braid shifted from where she'd tucked it safely back into the hood, and fell out into plain view. It swung slowly just below her face, the sunbeams shimmering off her silvery-blonde hair, betraying her.  
Years ago, on the rushed journey with Duncan from the ruined Castle Cousland all the way south to the ruins of Ostagar, Castielle had cut her mid-back length hair short; partially to stay out of her way, and partially as a symbol of abandoning her past life in her determination to gain vengeance upon Rendon Howe. Once the Battle of Denerim was over, and the archdemon lay dead, Castielle had helped place Alistair on the throne, and he had taken her as his queen. As the two ruled for a few happy years, Castielle had allowed her hair to grow back out.  
But when the time had come to leave, as it always seemed to do, Castielle once more cut her hair short as she prepared to go search for a cure for the Calling. She vowed to search out any and every possible lead to the cure, and swore to only return upon the cure's completion.  
Now that she had the cure, and had spent many months making the journey back to Denerim, her hair had once more returned to nearly its original length. To keep it from her face, she'd tied it in the braid which now betrayed her.  
Castielle felt rather than heard Alistair suck in a breath at the sight.  
"Stand," he commanded, but where a moment ago he had sounded disinterested, now his voice roiled with emotions; disbelief, shock, hope. Behind her, the nobility murmured amongst themselves at the sudden change in their king.  
Castielle still knelt, frozen in anxiety about her sudden reveal. Outside her range of vision, she heard him stand.  
A sudden jolt of adrenaline shook her from her reverie, and she stood upright. Alistair's honey-brown eyes stared hard at her, as if trying to see into the depths of her heart. In reality, she knew he was trying to see past the shadows that her cowl cast across her face.  
She reached up with shaking hands and pushed back her hood, at last revealing her face.  
Alistair stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Then, with as little warning as an earthquake, tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his face.  
" _Cassie_ ," he gasped.  
"Alist-"  
Before she could even finish his name, she was engulfed in his tight embrace. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the fur that lined his collar. He smelled just as she remembered: oak logs, a home cooked meal, a well-loved book. Dimly, Castielle was aware of everyone behind them cheering and talking excitedly.  
"I was beginning to think I'd grow old and withered before I ever saw you again," he whispered in her ear, his voice rough with emotion.  
Castielle chuckled softly, but felt tears welling up in her own eyes as well. "You? Old? Never."  
The two finally pulled apart, but stayed close. Alistair's hands cradled her face tenderly, as if she were fog and would dissipate if handled too roughly. "I can't believe it's really you," he wondered aloud. His fingertip traced a thin, white scar over her chin. "This one's new."  
Castielle pointed at the gray hairs at his temples. "What about you? Those are new as well."  
He gave a self-conscious grin. "Can't seem to shake them," was his reply. "Besides, I'm well-informed that they attract all sorts of beautiful women to me."  
Castielle raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Is that so?"  
"It is," he said firmly. "I mean, it brought you back to me, didn't it?"  
Despite herself, she felt giggles bubbling up her throat, and she felt Alistair's smile against hers as their lips finally met in a kiss far too long postponed.  
"I admit, the gray works for you," she murmured. "I'm not too sure about the beard, though." She gave the offending hair on his chin a gentle, teasing tug.  
"My lady, if the beard is too much for your constitution to bear, I shall strike it from my face and never again even allow a shadow of stubble," Alistair exclaimed. He clasped her hand between his and stared at her earnestly, earning another giggle.  
"You don't have to go that far," she compromised, kissing him again.  
At this point, a thought seemed to strike the king. "Oh, you're back! Does this mean you found that cure you were searching for?" His voice dropped to conspiratorial levels as the nobility finally closed in on them, clamoring to offer their congratulations or to pry her with questions as to where she'd gone for so long, and what she'd been doing.  
"I'll tell you later," she promised him with a soft smile as they turned to face the masses. "For now, let's just enjoy being together once more, alright?"  
"For you, my queen, anything."


End file.
